


Birth and Death

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [61]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Dalish Origin, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Canonical Character(s), Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: She paused in the trees at the edge of camp, focus turned inward and brace of rabbits forgotten as she felt a strong series of kicks from the little life inside her. A fluttering that reassured her daily that her child still lived. His child.





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

> The chronologically astute among you might have noticed it's been two years since I uploaded my first Dragon Age/Theron fic on here (don't look at it now, it's trash)! Ergo, today is Theron's second birthday!   
> And what better way to celebrate than... Well, this sort of fic?  
> As always, concrit is appreciated.

Sethili knew her time was close. That didn’t stop her from making small excursions from camp to check the nearest rabbit snares - but always with a companion now her stomach was so ponderously swollen. The Sabrae clan had taken her in and kept her, assured her there was still a place for her and her child after… After it had happened. The days had blurred together since then, and she had grown heavier and heavier with child. _His_ child.

Doing such minor tasks was frustrating. She was a huntress by heart and soul, wore Andruil’s _vallaslin_ proudly, and she was no longer able to roam the forest from dawn til dusk in search of prey. Now she was never far from camp or a pair of watchful eyes, and could barely crouch to empty snares without her own body getting in the way. Sometimes she wondered if she would be blessed by the Creators and birth twins. She certainly felt big enough.

“It will be soon.” The new Keeper assured her as they walked together, a brace of freshly-killed rabbits slung over Sethili’s shoulder.

“I know.” She answered, looking down at the swells of her body. She’d been unable to wear most of her armour since the sixth or seventh moon, when her stomach and breasts grew in earnest. Now the ninth moon approached and she wore looser-cut cloth that put the least amount of pressure on the various swellings.

She paused in the trees at the edge of camp, focus turned inward and brace of rabbits forgotten as she felt a strong series of kicks from the little life inside her. Sometimes they were strong enough to make her skin twitch like a halla shooing a fly, but she was unable to see if these ones did under her shirt. A fluttering that reassured her daily that her child still lived.

“Sethili?” Marethari asked carefully, and the huntress looked up to meet her keen gaze. There was a tension in her form as she gripped her staff like a hawk about to leave it’s perch, ready to leap to action if the word was given.

“The child is as strong as a halla fawn.” She answered, resting one hand on her stomach as if that was enough to stop the kicking. “ _Da’halla_.” She added with a gentle smile. The Keeper relaxed and nodded once. Now they were back in the safety of camp, the two women parted ways again.

Sethili’s lone braid swayed as ponderously from side to side as her stomach as she crossed to where the hunters were gathered to skin her catches. Sethili found herself robbed of her usual grace, traded for a heavy stomach and ungainly grunts of effort. It was an effort to sit down, and even more of an effort to get back to her feet afterwards, but they understood. The whole clan did. Either they had given birth before, or had a bondmate who had given birth.

As she skinned and gutted the rabbits, Sethili found herself staring down at her stomach thoughtfully. This child she carried was one of the last tangible reminders she had of him, the only thing that kept her bound to this clan now her bondmate was gone. She was a stranger to this clan, had barely been with them for two whole winters.

As much as they tried to make her welcome in the early days and comfortable now she was so close to giving birth, Sethili couldn’t help but wonder if they truly accepted her as one of their own. She was Mahariel far from her clan, and they Sabrae. While Zathrian had fumed and raged at losing one of his kin so gifted at hunting, he had been unable to stop her from joining her lover’s clan to be with him when that chance winter their clans spent camped together had thawed, allowing Mahariel and Sabrae to part until the next Arlathvhen.

Yet now her lover was gone, only her memories and the child that still grew within her evidence that they had ever…

Sethili closed her eyes and lowered the skinning knife as the deep ache in her chest stirred anew. No, it hurt too much to think about him. Four moons later, and the wounds were still raw. Perhaps once the child - _his_ child - was born, it would ease the pain of her loss? Would the aching hole in her very self be soothed and filled when she held Aridhel’s child in her arms?

Sethili opened her eyes and lifted her chin up proudly. All she could do now was _hope_.

 

* * *

 

Ignoring the faint twinges of pain that ran through her lower half, Sethili nocked another arrow and stared down at her target - a bundle of furs tied to a tree. Hardly the real thing, but it was better than no target at all.

The slow breathing as she aimed helped to ease the pains somewhat whenever they returned. They’d woken her up that morning and had been enough source of alarm to get Ashalle, the clan’s midwife. The child was coming perhaps half a moon early, but it was nothing to be worried about.

“It is eager to see the world.” Ashalle had commented with a private, wistful smile to herself, and the child within had chosen then to kick as if it agreed. It was a slow beginning. Already it was well past noon, Sethili reflected as she glanced up at the sky.

She hadn’t expected it to be so slow and relaxed, to be certain. With all the tales of labour she’d heard from the women of the clan who were mothers, she’d expected to be bedridden and screaming in pain at the first cramp of warning. Ashalle had reassured her that that part came later. It was surprising to find herself able to walk around camp and help as if nothing was amiss - but whenever she winced at particularly sharp pain she saw how the people near her paused for the briefest moment. Watching. Waiting.

Of course, she was confined to camp; Marethari had firmly put her foot down before going out of the clearing had even been suggested. For the first time she wasn’t even allowed more than a few feet out into the trees, but Sethili had no inclination to go wandering today of all days. As much as her soul pulled her to the open forest, the pull of the life inside her was stronger.

She let out a weary sigh and drew back her bowstring for another arrow. As if such a simple thing as her first labour would keep her from target practice. She nearly smiled at that, until another sharp cramp left her gasping and gripping at the wood of her bow tightly. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she aimed and loosed the arrow before lowering her bow. Her now free hand flew to her stomach as the pain grew rather than faded away.

Ashalle was by her in an instant, and helped her into the aravel. It had been prepared in advance, the floors piled with furs and clean rags, bowls of water set aside. Despite the fact no words had been spoken, some of the clan’s other women drifted over and joined them in the aravel.

Marethari, of course, joined her sister and traced fire glyphs onto the bowls to heat the water in silent concentration. Mihren and her son with wide blue eyes and a feathery down of blond hair who rested in her arms easily; Tamlen wasn’t her first child. Sethili blinked at them, and wondered if her child would look so soft and delicate as he babbled wordlessly for attention.

Would motherhood come naturally to her, with no bondmate to help her? She had the entire clan to turn to, but they were no true replacement. This was her first and now only child. She would not seek out another man to help her, and having a child by anyone else was out of the question. They would only be a poor second and a constant reminder of what she had lost.

The aravel was soon filled with chatter interspersed with the women shooing away curious children who asked too many questions and stared. Sethili couldn’t help a smile at their boldness. Eventually Ashalle grew tired of the chattering interruptions and with a sharp “Paivel?” from the aravel entrance, the clan’s storyteller and her bondmate had expertly gathered up the errant children like a _shem_ shepherd would his flock somewhere out of view of the aravel entrance.

“So, _da’len_ , who can tell me where babies come from?” His voice floated through the curtain that was pulled across the entrance.

Sethili tuned out the conversation she could only hear, and focused on breathing slowly, occasionally joining in the chatter around her in the aravel. The pain slowly worsened, sitting cross-legged grew too uncomfortable, and it was as she moved into a kneeling position that she felt something shift and tear inside her. With a low whimper, she felt unknown wetness soak into her smalls, and then trousers and furs. Fear curled low in her stomach and left her skin cold.

“It’s not blood, is it?” She breathed, trembling at the very idea. That… That something had gone so desperately wrong this close to the end. That the Creators would take _this_ away from her as well, when she had dared to hope otherwise for so long.

“No, no,” Ashalle reassured her firmly, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder as she bent to check. “It was your water breaking. The baby is coming.”

Sethili allowed herself to relax then, and turn her focus to more important matters as the other women quietly celebrated and returned to talking amongst themselves.

 

The hours passed, everyone but Ashalle and Marethari came and went and came back as they wished to offer company or advice, and the contractions grew steadily worse. It was sunset by the time Ashalle first told her to start pushing, and the wind sighed through the yellowing leaves outside as the camp began to settle in for the night.

Sethili knelt there, knees braced on a pile of furs as Marethari knelt in front of her and steadied her, one hand offered wordlessly. The Keeper was enviably calm and collected, as was Ashalle. Sethili could only groan and pant, her eyes firmly shut to the world that regularly narrowed down to the rippling pain low in her stomach.

When it eased, she found herself talking, her eyes stinging with tears.

“He’s not here. He should be here for this.”

Marethari looked pained, and Sethili was uncertain if it was due to the fact her hand was being crushed or the words spoken aloud in the dim light of the aravel, a cramped little world separated from the camp by a single thick curtain that smelt of old wood, magic and blood.

“I know.”

A burning hot stab of pain tore Sethili’s response from her throat and turned it into a wild cry of pain. When she managed to open her eyes, it was because the pain had faded quickly. It took her a few dazed seconds to realise it was due to Marethari’s gently glowing hands low on her stomach.

“Not too much, _asa'ma'lin_ , she still needs to feel the contractions.” Ashalle murmured beside them. Sethili blinked away her tears of pain, looking between the two sisters.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” She asked. Ashalle nodded with a faintly tired smile.

“This is your first. So much of it is new right now, but it will…” Ashalle stopped and looked away uneasily.

“It will not take much longer.” Marethari offered, her expression unreadable. Sethili was going to ask what they had just avoided saying, but then the next contraction began and she was too busy to think through the fire that lanced through her and threatened to consume her.

When it ebbed and slunk away - Creators, it _hurt-_ she found Ashalle offering up a thick leather strap to bite down on.

“Rather this than your own tongue, hm?” The midwife offered, and Sethili laughed darkly as she accepted it, aware of how her palms were slick with sweat against Marethari’s cooler hand. Her entire body was covered in sweat, in fact. Sweat and other bodily fluids between her now-bare thighs that she couldn’t see but could certainly _feel_ in the cooling evening air. Her knees were starting to hurt from kneeling for so long, but her back and stomach hurt worse than they had ever done during her monthly cycles. Moving to another position was an incredibly unappealing thought right now.

The pain increased, the respite between each attack growing shorter and shorter. The leather was a help; it allowed her to muffle at least some of the noises she made until her throat was hoarse and sore like the rest of her body.

“You’re doing wonderful,” Ashalle reported what felt like hours later, and Sethili leaned helplessly, blindly, into the cool palm and damp cloth wiped across her brow and down each side of her neck. It cooled her overheated skin somewhat and was a jarring contrast to everything else. It felt like her body was trying to tear itself apart, a constant panting stabbing burning and _oh Mythal please make it stop_ -

“I can see the head. Come on, Sethili, you’re nearly there.”

“Just a few more pushes, and then it will be over.” Marethari promised.

Sethili felt the breath as it rasped in her throat, sucked in and then rushing out too quickly to be of much use. _More_ pushing? She’d done that all evening, she _couldn’t_. She was exhausted, the pain would kill her.

Marethari squeezed her hand, far more gently than her hand had been squeezed earlier.

“One… Two.. Three… _Push_.”

Crying, screaming, swearing, begging Mythal to ease her pain, Sethili pushed until her body trembled and she felt lightheaded. Marethari’s arms were around her, supporting her when her body sagged forwards.

“Almost there, almost there.”

Shaking from exhaustion, Sethili regained her balance, doing her best to breathe deeply even as another wave of pain enfolded her. She pushed when told once… Twice. Screamed loud enough through the leather to wake the entire camp, no doubt. Pushed again, and then _something_ left her, slipped out easily into Ashalle’s waiting hands that prevented a lethal fall to the furs.

“Mare, the cloths and the knife.”

She could breathe again, large and frantic gasps for air. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, and she was only dimly aware of being helped down onto the furs, lying with her legs still weakly parted and left to float there as the other two women sorted everything out. The air was close in the aravel with the curtain blocking the night air, humid and dusty and metallic with blood. She hadn’t noticed it before. Her eyelids were so heavy, even the lingering aches wouldn’t be able to stop her from sleeping now. Creators… It was over. Relief flooded through her and left her drained.

“Sethili?”

A gentle hand on her shoulder made her open her eyes. Ashalle knelt beside her partially silhouetted by magelight, a tired smile on her face and a bundle in her arms. “It’s a boy. A healthy young lad.”

The breath left her far too quickly, but she accepted the warm bundle to see for herself. A tiny lump wrapped in downy rabbit fur, a round face with soft features, eyes firmly shut to the world. His skin was dark brown, a few shades darker than her own, and flushed pink underneath. Fine black strands of hair were plastered to his head. He was so _small_.

Sethili blinked away the tears that gathered as her son - _their_ son - stirred in her arms and began to complain shrilly, toothless mouth opening to show a small pink tongue. She stared in amazement as Ashalle helped her up into a sitting position. Here he was. A _tiny_ , screaming little thing who was now separate from her after nine long moons. He was a completely new person, held in her arms. Born to the Sabrae clan, but he would carry her name. Her _son_.

As she pulled her shirt off and brought the child to her breast, she couldn’t help a giddy laugh. Black hair and delicately pointed ears so like her own. Her nose, too, but his father’s lips and jawline - much softer, of course, but he would grow into it. He would grow into a young man to be proud of. Sethili’s smiled faded, and the joy rang hollow in the face of the old grief as it resurfaced. _Would Aridhel be proud of his child?_ That voice whispered. Of course he would be.

“He looks like him.” She whispered as he suckled.

He looked so much like his father. _Too_ _much_. A reminder of her loss twisting like a dagger in her heart. The world shifted disorientingly around her, as if the furs underneath her weary legs had been pulled away by uncaring hands. As if she was seeing her lover’s body again and feeling the plans for their shared future burn to the ground. As she stared down at the warm bundle in her arms, searching that newborn face for an answer and finding none, Sethili felt a familiar coldness trickle down her spine like ice water. Her smile faded.

Once he was fed, the two of them fell asleep; the afterbirth had yet to pass, but there was little stopping them from catching a scarce amount of sleep in the interim. Ashalle stayed in the aravel til sunrise to ensure all was well. If she was woken by Sethili’s tears some time before dawn, she never deigned to mention it.

 

* * *

 

The Dalish didn’t name their children for the first three moons of their life, in case sickness or injury or some other misfortune stole the precious little life away. It was easier, then, to move on and try again. Sethili had used the time to consider names as they both grew strong again in the safety of the aravel, and then the camp.

There hadn’t been much discussion of names between herself and Aridhel, it had been too early in the pregnancy. One or two halfhearted suggestions, but now she held the child in her arms none of the suggestions came close to fitting, and she had to decide alone.

“Shenuvunis?” She mused as she stared thoughtfully down at the babe in a sling held to her chest; the shirt’s laces were loose so it was a simple matter to feed him. “You were born at night, _da’halla_ , it would fit.”

The child blinked sleepily, and waved a pudgy arm at her in response.

“Avirel?” She offered instead.

If he was mageblooded like his father, he would be as just as great a Keeper. There hadn’t been anything said to her, but she knew how to read the tension in the air. The way Marethari studied him intently, no doubt imagining what kind of a mageling student he would be in the years to come. She needed him - no, it felt more like the entire clan needed him to be a mage. To follow in his father’s footsteps, to replace what had been torn away so cruelly by _shemlen_. To one day lead and protect them all from the dangers of Thedas.

Sethili tapped the wood of her bow thoughtfully. She was once more allowed to leave camp with a companion, but the risk of the child crying would have scared off any prey in the area. So, she remained in camp, ensuring her aim remained true until the child was old enough to be weaned and left with the other babes and mothers while she hunted and wandered to her heart’s content.

Would her child only be a leader and protector? She was a gifted huntress, and no small part of her hoped that some of her talents had been passed on as well.

“What if you grow to be a hunter? A fierce hunter fending off a wolf’s advances?”

The babe stared up at her with wide brown eyes, before they fell closed and his head drooped forwards against her chest. Asleep so quickly? She ran a hand carefully over his downy black hair, the other holding her bow tight.

“Theron.” She decided softly, so as not to wake him. “Theron Mahariel.” The name rolled easily off her tongue. Her hesitant love for him, this fragile and precious child that was both her and Aridhel’s legacy, fluttered like a landed bird in her chest. She could only hope it would grow with him and be enough to replace the yawning loss rooted deep in her heart.

 

It wasn’t.


	2. Death

The moons passed, and Theron grew. He was weaned, grew teeth and a thick covering of downy hair, started to babble for attention, learned how to crawl and then walk. He smiled whenever Sethili returned from her hunting trips, clung to her leg whenever she lingered in camp to dress her kills or practice archery. His face crumpled and he cried whenever she disappeared back into the forest, reaching for her fruitlessly as Miren or Ashalle tried to distract him.

The noise grated at her ears, pitched just high enough to make guilt twist in her stomach. She’d made the mistake of looking back the first few times and his heartbroken expression had made her will crumble. She’d spent _those_ days sitting with the rest of the clan’s mothers and a squirming child in her lap or her arms, yearning to feel the coolness and peace of the forest around her. Instead she felt like a grounded bird as the more experienced mothers gently showed her the best way to hold him and play with him.

But she rarely gave in and looked over a shoulder now. The forest’s call was more insistent than Theron’s, beckoning her with fresh tracks or the glimpsed white flash of a deer’s hindquarters as it weaved through the trees and enticed her to give chase. Then the hunt was on. Theron’s cries and the growing looks of concern or disapproval from the clan were forgotten for the day.

Hunting was no longer a distraction to her, but her way of life. The way it had been before Theron and the Sabrae clan and _him_. If she wandered far enough, sometimes she would pretend that her old clan would be waiting for her when she got back, Zathrian nodding his tight-lipped approval.

At first she had gone with her usual hunting partners, but as time went on even they began to share hesitant looks when she approached and suggested a hunt, the clan’s mood infecting even them until one of them, Jos, had suggested she stay behind to look after her child with the faintest of barbs to his tone. After that she had decided to go hunting alone in future. She was capable enough to keep herself out of danger and the solitude was a pleasant change. It gave her time to think.

Ashalle managed to corner her when she returned one evening, the huntress weary from an afternoon spent up to her elbows in deer innards and intent on dropping off her spoils.

“Are you well?” The midwife asked after pulling her aside.

“Of course.” Sethili answered with a forced smile.

“You are spending a lot of time away from camp...”

The smile faded with far less effort than it had taken to be put there.

“I only ask because of Theron,” Ashalle continued gently, and Sethili followed her gaze to where the child stumbled between the aravels after Tamlen, his unbridled enthusiasm making up for the small age gap and his wobbling legs. Their laughs filled the evening air. Her child. His third winter was approaching, Sethili remembered distantly as she watched the two play together under Paivel’s watchful eye. “He misses you.”

“He seems happy enough to me.”

Ashalle pressed her lips together at that, and the resemblance to her sister grew.

“But he needs his mother.”

Sethili bit back a comment about how he had a clan full of far more capable mothers and father figures, holding her tongue between her teeth. He had no need of the one who had carried and birthed him now. But Ashalle was staring at her expectantly, and she could feel the weight of the clan’s judgement on her shoulders like a cloak.

She took a breath, and stepped past Ashalle to deliver her spoils with her head held high.

 

The reality of Ashalle’s words didn’t sink in until she was preparing herself for another hunting trip and Theron didn’t start crying loudly for her. Instead he stared at her with solemn brown eyes, and was quickly distracted by chasing a passing butterfly through camp.

Sethili hesitated at the edge of camp, listening to the alluring call of the forest beyond the camp, and the chatter of the clan, the sound of laughter. Theron ran along between the aravels after his fluttering quarry, away from her and out of sight. Her bow stave and quiver pressed against her back, but she could feel the glances the clan shot her. They were watching her. Judging her, when they had no right to.

She stood there uncertainly on the fringe of the treeline like an alerted deer. _He needs his mother._ Her shoulders slowly fell, and she gave into the weakened instinct that tugged at her. She unshouldered her bow as she went to catch up with Theron.

He laughed shrilly when she scooped him up into her arms, a high-pitched sound that made her wince, and he was heavier than she remembered as he wriggled to face her. But he showed his teeth as he smiled at her and then nuzzled close. Sethili let his excited babble wash over her, studying his small face closely and finding more of his father in those rounded features that would one day sharpen and harden. The ache in her chest began anew, swallowing and smothering even the embers of her love for Theron. It was an unbearable ache like it was still a freshly inflicted wound, but she knew that she had to stay. For now, at least.

 

* * *

 

The years passed slowly. Eventually Sethili started to braid Theron’s hair when it became apparent none of the clan’s common hairstyles suited his wiry hair. It was too short for a single braid like hers, so she braided rows of smaller ones instead. He seemed to like it, and Fenarel and Tamlen soon discovered the joy of tugging at the braids to tease Theron when his back was turned; it became another game for the three of them. Sethili was merely glad of the break it offered her, when she could pay attention once more to the forest’s insistent call even if she wasn't able to follow it. Yet.

Theron lived up to the affectionate nickname she hadn't called him since the night he was born. He loved spending time with the halla, and Maren was certain that the feeling was returned.

“He could become the next halla keeper, if he isn't mageblooded.”’ The young woman mused as they watched one of the halla lie patiently in the grass so Theron could pet it and examine the painstakingly carved horns that curved towards the sky. Sethili frowned in irritation at the idea, but said nothing.

 

* * *

 

The day Theron went missing, Sethili was unsurprisingly on a hunting trip and had been away from camp for a day already.

“Perhaps she was eaten by a bear?” Ashalle grumbled, venting her frustration on the clothes she was scrubbing clean in the shallows of the river. Theron and Tamlen had followed her out to play nearby, but their laughter had faded some time ago as their mimicking of the clan’s hunters and Keepers of generations past had no doubt drawn them back to camp in search of more playmates.

“Are you talking about Sethili again?” A familiar voice asked, and she looked over one shoulder to see Paivel with another woven basket of clothes in need of washing. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

Ashalle sighed, lowering the scrubbing brush.

“I know, but she is away from camp so often you’d think she was a scout. We don’t need a huntress working herself to death. Not when she has a young child who needs her,” She fumed. “She’s throwing away a blessing from the Creators, ignoring a more important duty than hunting.”

Paivel was quiet until Ashalle returned to scrubbing a little harder than she needed to.

“ _Ma vhenan_ , what Sethili does is her own decision. She is young, and she has suffered,” He replied calmly. “Perhaps she is still in mourning? When she recovers, then she can look after Theron properly. Until then, he has the clan. He has you.”

Ashalle smiled wearily. Theron may not have been her child by blood, but there were many days where it felt like it. On the frequent nights where Sethili was away from camp and Theron didn’t want to sleep in a huddle with the rest of the clan’s children, he often found his way into their aravel. He was like the child they had always wanted but never had. Ashalle shook her head, dislodging the overly maternal thoughts.

“Theron is not our child. He belongs with his mother, if she’d ever deign to spend more than a few days with him at a time.”

“We can’t force her to.” Paivel insisted as gently as ever, finally depositing his basket of washing. “So, where is Theron?” He asked, looking around the riverbank. Ashalle frowned, and looked around. It was only herself and Paivel, no sign of any children.

“Is he not back at camp?”

“No, not that I’ve seen. I thought he was still with you.”

“Did you see Tamlen or Fenarel in camp?”

Paivel was quiet as he recalled, but then he nodded. They shared a worried look as Ashalle got to her feet and brushed down the front of her dress.

“I’ll do the washing now, _lath_. You go and find out where Theron is hiding.”

“He might have tried to climb a tree again.” Ashalle joked to ease the creeping tension.

She tried to keep her thoughts calm as she strode back through the trees to camp. Just because Paivel hadn’t seen him while collecting washing didn’t mean Theron had left camp or strayed far. He was probably at another part of camp or in an aravel.

Ashalle began to search, keeping an eye out as she checked first Sethili’s aravel, then her own. Nothing. Miren’s. Fenarel’s mother, Iri’s. No sign of Theron in any of them or the area of camp she covered going from one aravel to the next.

After that, she tried his usual haunts. The halla pen, where the graceful creatures dozed in the noon heat. One of the communal campfires where Paivel often told stories and Theron listened raptly at his feet. Nothing.

She skirted the fringes of camp next, one eye on the tree canopies around her, calling his name from time to time. No response, no laugh as he came running or poked his head out from a tree. Eventually she admitted defeat and with worry catching at her throat she went to the Keeper’s aravel.

“Mare, is Theron in here with you?” She asked hopefully as she poked her head into the entryway. Marethari looked up from the weathered vellum she studied and shook her head.

“No, why? Is he in trouble again?”

“I can’t find him anywhere in camp.”

“Did you check the river?”

“I’ve been there all morning.”

“The aravels?”

“All the ones he’s likely to be in. And the halla pen.”

Marethari put aside the vellum.

“When did you last see him?”

“Before sunhigh?” Ashalle guessed with a frown. “I’m not sure, I’ve been busy washing clothes,” She bit her lip, throat tightening. “I should have been paying attention to him, I’m sorry, Mare.”

“You just said you were busy, and it’s a big camp. Theron isn’t the sort to wander far or for too long.” Mare answered, enviably calm.

“Should we go ask the scouts to search?”

“I don’t want to alarm anyone, so if we don’t find Theron by sunset we’ll rally the scouts. Until then, the hunting apprentices can keep an eye out. You continue searching the camp, he might have reappeared by now.”

Feeling reassured, Ashalle resumed her search, occasionally asking a clanmate or two if they’d seen Theron. Neither Tamlen or Fenarel were of much help, surprisingly. Despite playing with him earlier, they hadn’t noticed when he’d left them. It did little to ease Ashalle’s worry.

As she approached the halla pen, Maren’s waving distracted the worry from becoming true fear.

“Ashalle! I heard Theron might have wandered off?”

“Have you seen him?”

Maren, oddly, smiled and beckoned Ashalle to the fence she leaned against rather than reply.  Ashalle frowned as her gaze was directed into the halla pen.

The heat of the day had passed, so there were fewer halla lying in the grass to doze rather than stand to graze. There were two halla still lying under the shade of a tree, and as Ashalle looked she realised there was a small form curled up between them. The tension fled in a second. It was Theron, fast asleep in the middle of the halla pen, with one side of his braided hair a mess from where one of the halla had no doubt tried to groom him like a fawn.

Ashalle rested her elbows on the fence, and then let her head fall into her hands. Maren laughed beside her.

“Shall I get him?”

“Please.”

One of the halla that had kept watch on Theron bleated a protest as he was woken and picked up, and even followed Maren to the fence as Theron was handed over.

“You’ll have your own calf to care for in a few moons.” Maren reminded her.

The halla snorted in response, ears flicked forwards to catch Ashalle’s relieved lecture about wandering off.

 

“I never thought I’d see the day where a _halla_ cared for a child more than his own mother,” Ashalle complained to Marethari later once Theron was suitably scolded for making them worry and busy cleaning himself at the river with Paivel keeping an eye on him. “All Sethili seems to care about is hunting. If I hadn’t delivered him myself, I would be certain that Theron’s real mother had died!” She continued, until Marethari’s hand on her shoulder made her stop. “I know I shouldn’t say such things, but he’s going to see his sixth winter soon. He’s still so _young_.”

“You do have a point,” Marethari replied. “Sethili seems to have forgotten she has a son, but no matter how many times I have tried to talk to her, it never makes an impact. It’s a problem.”

“We can’t just watch her ignore him as she wishes!”

“Ash, I know this frustrates you more than most, but Theron has the whole clan to raise him, not just Sethili. That includes me. That includes you. Calm yourself, and I shall try and talk with Sethili when she returns, see if she is capable of seeing sense.”

Ashalle relaxed, and went to make sure Theron wasn’t about to disappear again.

 

* * *

 

Marethari cornered Sethili later that night in her aravel. Theron was fast asleep with the other children in Miren’s aravel, so there was no worry about waking him. Sethili looked up warily from cleaning her armour as Marethari entered.

“We need to talk. I’m sure you can guess what about.”

The huntress pushed her armour aside but remained cross-legged. She didn’t motion for Marethari to sit, but Marethari sat anyway once she’d pulled the curtain closed to give them the illusion of privacy. She gazed at Sethili in the dim light provided by a handful of candles. She looked tired; she’d only returned to camp at sunset and after she’d handed over the spoils of her hunt, she’d disappeared straight into her aravel. Marethari doubted Theron even knew she was back.

As well as looking tired, Marethari noticed that her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. Marethari had to harden her heart to the sight, remembering her discussion with Ashalle earlier. Now it seemed that Sethili had shrugged off all forms of parental responsibility and pushed them onto her clanmates, if not outright rejected Theron.

“I know that the years since Aridhel’s death have been difficult for you,” Marethari continued as gently as she could, watching Sethili’s guarded expression shift to one of grim neutrality. “That you are still grieving. But what you are doing now is selfish and cruel to Theron. He’s your only child, barely six winters old. And you prefer to spend the time you could have with him away from camp alone. He needs _you_ , not the rest of the clan, to raise him.”

Sethili remained silent as she stared at Marethari. Now she looked almost bored; her expression was difficult to read, her body language closed off. Marethari sighed, and tried again.

“Is something wrong, Sethili? You are a part of this clan, you can tell me.”

The huntress blinked, and for a second it seemed as if she would remain mute like one of the statues of the Creators outside.

“I am fine, thank you.” She answered woodenly. Marethari pursed her lips, but tried to keep her patience with the younger woman.

“If Theron takes after his father and is mageblooded, he will be a powerful Keeper, a worthy successor. And that is something the clan needs more than fresh-.”

“You’ve already started to teach him?”

Marethari blinked in surprise. The lessons had started a few moons ago - Sethili hadn’t known? Then again she was rarely in camp for longer than a night now.

“Yes. Just some history of the clan and a handful of lineages. Nothing too advanced, and no magical training yet - he’s not quite old enough for any magical talent to show itself. Perhaps after next winter.”

Sethili’s lips pressed together into a thin line this time, leaving Marethari feeling lost. Had she somehow caused offence? Creators, why was this woman so difficult to read? She rarely spent time around the communal campfires since Aridhel. Over the years, she’d retreated more and more into herself. It was frustrating.

“I see. Anything else you wish to lecture me about?”

Marethari gritted her teeth at the sharp tone, but refused to be caught in the snare of this sort of argument tonight. She got to her feet.

“Only that you are young and I hope you will learn to put your only child’s needs before your whims, or his mother may well have died in childbirth.” She replied icily, and left Sethili to her unfathomable self-imposed isolation.

 

 

Sethili took a deep breath as Marethari left the aravel, before she closed her eyes and let the tears fall once again tonight, burying her head in her hands. The Keeper’s words stung all the more viciously because she knew they were true.

She already knew that she was a bad mother to Theron. She’d tried to spend time with him, to love him as much as she had loved Aridhel, but it was impossible. Theron tried her patience and irritated her. Besides, he didn’t need her anymore, despite what Marethari said. He had the clan, full of people far more capable of raising a child than her.

Whenever she looked at him now, all she could see was Aridhel. Theron looked so much like him already, and she knew that as the years went on the resemblance would only grow. Theron would take after his father so much. Too much. It pained her to look at him for too long.

He’d probably be a mage like his father, too. A good, powerful mage. The Keeper that the Sabrae clan needed, as Marethari had said. Sethili knew she should feel proud of Theron like any good mother should, but instead she felt _nothing_. There was a distance between them now, one that was too wide to be crossed. And it was entirely her fault. She avoided her own child because he served as a constant reminder of what she’d lost. It was painful still, a wound that had refused to heal and now festered. Theron was rubbing her loss in her face just by existing. Perhaps it would be best if she left? Stole away in the night?

The more she sat alone in the dim aravel and considered it, the more appealing the idea became. Theron didn’t need her, no matter what Ashalle or Marethari or the rest of the clan thought. He was surrounded by so many others who could love him and take care of him better than she could. He didn’t need her.

As for the clan… Sethili stared at the closed curtain in front of her, beyond which she could hear the sounds of the clan settled for another night while she sat alone and uninvited. She was an outsider to them, always had been. Aridhel’s death hadn’t changed much. Clearly they didn’t want her, with all their disapproving gazes and honest lectures.

She couldn’t stay, either. Not when the pain of her grief was consuming her. Not when every second spent with her son or the clan was a reminder of her loss and inadequacy as a mother.

Mother. _Mamae_. The words were unfamiliar to her. It would certainly be better if she left. Theron deserved love she couldn’t give, hadn’t been able to give from the day he was born. Perhaps he would understand one day.

Sethili got to her feet and began gathering her things. If she left, perhaps she could find her own clan again, return to Zathrian as if the last eight winters had never happened. And ten winters from now at the Arlathvhen after this year’s she could see Theron again as a young man, and apologise.

Shouldering her bow and quiver was second nature as she listened to the faint talking outside the aravel. They wouldn’t care. Would they even notice her absence? Would they be surprised? Disappointed? She wiped her eyes roughly and squared her shoulders. They would understand. Theron would understand when he was older. They were all better off without her.

She met no-one on her way out of camp even though she passed campfires and aravels. No-one talked to her or stopped her as she walked from flickering pools of orange light to the shadows beyond. Most of them didn’t even look up. It was as if she’d already died.

The forest was dark ahead of her, but she was a huntress. She knew the way. It called to her as it had always done, and then swallowed her whole.

 

* * *

 

Ashalle found Marethari standing watching the edge of the forest as the latest hunting party returned, exhausted by the noon heat but still finding the energy to tease each other over some mishap as they walked on into camp.

“Mare?”

“The clan needs to move on, but Sethili has been out on another hunting trip for four days.”

“Is that longer than normal?”

Mare nodded, her eyes narrowed and face drawn in concern.

“She did leave at first light, before even Maren was awake.”

“The hunters haven’t crossed paths with her.”

There was a silence.

“Should we…?”

“Rally the scouts into a search party?” Mare finished for her sister, her gaze not leaving the forest’s edge. “Yes.”

Ashalle nodded, and went to go find the scouts.

 

It took another three days for the scouts to return, during which time the clan should have already been on it’s way to a new site. Some of the hunters had seen glimpses of humans getting too close for comfort and so the entire clan was on edge from that coupled with the delay. Tension hung subtly in the air like the summer heat.

Ashalle was keeping an eye on Theron and Fenarel roughhousing in the dirt outside her aravel as she sat in the entranceway, the heat making all the clan’s children sore-tempered and giddy, but she noticed one of the scouts stride back into camp alone and go straight for Marethari’s aravel like a stooping falcon.

The Keeper seemed to have been watching and waiting as well, because she was standing in front of the entrance before the scout was in speaking distance. There was a brief discussion Ashalle was too far away to hear - and then a yelp of pain from one of her charges drew her attention back to where it belonged.

“Calm down, _da’len_.” She chided them, and then she looked up in time to see Marethari following the scout out into the treeline. The worry that had begrudgingly built up for her irresponsible clanmate grew.

If the scouts had found Sethili injured, they would have brought her into the camp to the Keeper for healing, not the other way around. Maybe she’d broken a leg, or was otherwise unable to walk?

Theron and Fenarel abruptly stopped their scuffling, and Ashalle saw Marethari walking towards her with a grim expression. That was certainly enough to make the children behave to avoid a scolding if they drew her attention.

“Go elsewhere, _da’len_.” Ashalle suggested. “Go pester Ilen while we talk.”

“Yes, Ashalle.” Theron replied, and then the two hared off to find the clan’s newly-fledged crafter as Marethari reached her sister. Ashalle shifted over to make room on the doorway, but Marethari remained standing.

“The scouts found Sethili,” Mare spoke, and her tone filled Ashalle with dread rather than cheer. She looked, but her sister’s face was drawn with sorrow as she watched Theron across the clearing. He was in conversation with Ilen, an innocent oblivion that would soon be shattered. Ashalle felt cold, and sorrow choked her throat. “Get Paivel for the funeral rites.”

Ashalle watched hollowly as Mare went back to her aravel, Theron’s laughter drifting across the camp. She stared at the drawn curtain of Marethari’s aravel - the Keeper’s aravel. It had once been Aridhel’s, and if Theron proved to be mageblooded then he would inherit it. He would inherit both of his parents’ personal possessions now. Sethili was dead. Aridhel was dead. They were both dead. He was an orphan, but still blissfully unaware of it for a few precious minutes more. The tears sprang to Ashalle’s eyes as she watched him across the clearing.

Sethili was _dead_. A fatal accident, or…? The alternative didn’t bear thinking about, And the last things she’d said about Sethili had been negative complaints behind her back. What kind of a clanmate was she, to say such things?

Paivel, yes. Slowly, as if the sickening guilt was a physical illness, she went to find Paivel where he sat around an unlit campfire and explain just as briefly as her sister had.

“This is a sad day.” Was all he said before he too went to Marethari’s aravel to prepare. In his wake, the clanmates he’d been sat with began to murmur in shock or offer Ashalle a seat, but she refused the kindness. Word often spread like wildfire across the camp, and she had to explain this tragedy to Theron before he overheard it. She owed Sethili that, at the very least.

Theron, naturally, complained when he was shepherded away from his play, but he didn’t try and run back to them and make things more difficult.

“Theron, _da’len_ , I have something very important to tell you,” Was enough to quiet him as they reached Ashalle’s aravel where they could have some privacy from the rest of the camp. She sat cross-legged on the floor, wondering just how to tell this small child that he’d just lost his only parent, as absent as she’d been. She refused to cry now, had wiped away any trace of tears before collecting Theron. This wasn’t about her.

“You know your _mamae_ loves you?”

Theron turned to look at the aravel entrance.

“Is she back yet?”

Ashalle took a steadying breath.

“No, Theron, and that’s what I want to talk to you about. She isn’t coming back, _da’len_. She’s dead.”

Theron stared at her with wide brown eyes, and then frowned in confusion.

“She’s not coming back?” He repeated.

“She’s dead. Gone. The scouts found her body.” Ashalle stared back at him, imploring him to understand before the grief overwhelmed her. An idea struck. “You remember the halla that died last autumn after eating a bad mushroom? And how we buried it in the ground and planted a tree over it? And Maren cried?”

Theron nodded along to every question, but he still looked puzzled.

“It didn’t come back.” He added.

“Well, we’re going to do that with your mother, _da’len_. Bury her and plant a tree over her.”

Theron tilted his head, messy braids falling to one side.

“Did _mamae_ eat a bad mushroom too?” He asked.

“We… We don’t know.” Ashalle bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. Theron was remarkably calm, but he seemed to have grasped the concept. “Do you understand, Theron?”

“I think so. _Mamae_ is gone. But she’s always gone. When will she be back?”

Ashalle closed her eyes, praying to the Creators to give her strength - Falon’din in particular.

“She won’t be back, _da’len_.” She repeated patiently. “She’s dead and with the Creators now.”

That seemed to be what was needed, because after a few moments of thought Theron’s face crumpled and she found herself with an armful of sobbing child. She held him close as he cried, wishing she could do something more to ease the pain of grief. What could she say?

There was no point in pretending or lying to ease the pain. No point in telling him to hush, either. He was young and had to know that crying was natural. Certainly in _this_ case. He needed to cry, and so she held him, rocking him slowly.

“Ashalle?”

She blinked away the tears of her own to see Marethari in the entranceway watching them. They spoke at the same time.

“We’ll start when he’s ready.”

“I need to look after him from now on.”

Marethari hesitated, but then nodded approval.

“I can’t think of anyone better suited than you, sister,” She cast Theron a sympathetic look as he continued to sob loudly into the shoulder of Ashalle’s dress, his face buried in the fabric. “There’s no rush. Half the clan don’t know yet.”

Ashalle nodded, but they both knew that the clan had stayed in one area for long enough. They needed to have the funeral quickly and move on, the sooner the better.

“I’ll bring him out when he’s calmer.” She promised, and then Marethari left them alone.

It took a while for Theron to quiet down to sniffling and silent tears.

“Did she- Did she leave because of me?” He asked as Ashalle helped him wipe away the tears.

“ _Da’len_ , of course not! What makes you say that?” She frowned.

“I… I…” Theron shook his head and looked away, more tears falling. Ashalle decided not to push the issue right now. When he was calm again, she led him out docilely by the hand to where the clan was gathering around the litter that bore Sethili’s body.

Ashalle kept ahold of Theron’s hand throughout the funeral while Paivel and Marethari spoke. He cried again as Sethili’s body was lowered into a quickly dug grave and covered by a wave of Marethari’s hand, a frail young sapling planted in the newly loosened soil. The huntress left behind her pack, quiver, bow and infant son.

 

Afterwards, Paivel, Ashalle and Marethari retreated to the Keeper’s aravel while the rest of the clan started preparations to move on at last. Theron was left in Miren’s care, but he remained seated in the shade in front of the aravel huddled together with Tamlen and Fenarel as if the grief was a physical coldness. Paivel was more than ready to agree to look after Theron; they’d done it before with several unfortunately orphaned clanmates, what was one more?

“Should we try and contact Zathrian before the Arlathvhen?”

The Arlathvhen was only a few moons away; they, the Mahariel clan and perhaps two or three more were beginning to gravitate towards the agreed-upon meeting place.

“He has as much a say in this as we do.” Paivel offered, his lack of enthusiasm clear enough from his tone. No memory of the Mahariel clan’s Keeper was positive, despite the fact he had reclaimed their ancestors’ immortality. No doubt he would dig up old grievances with the Sabrae clan once he learned of what had happened since their clans had last met. What if he demanded Theron was to live with his clan as some warped kind of payment?

“He didn’t bring Theron into the world or watch him grow,” Ashalle countered grimly. “I can’t lose him. We can’t lose all three of them.”

Marethari studied her sister, and knew she was willing to fight Zathrian over which clan Theron would grow up in and, if he proved to be mageblooded, which one he would one day lead as his father had once done. They were both willing to argue, even if it meant the two clans became sworn enemies for as long as Zathrian lived and the Sabrae clan existed. It would be a worthy cost if Theron remained with his birth clan. A Mahariel in the Sabrae clan.

“We won’t.” She agreed, reaching over to squeeze Ashalle’s hand reassuringly. The matter was settled, and life had to go on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit appreciated!


End file.
